Misadventures of a Boy Genius
by nine miles to go
Summary: Chekov centric. "They see him as a blank corkboard, and every day they tack little pieces of themselves on him, defining who he will become."
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: My ownership of Star Trek ends with the transporter flashlight from the Frosted Flakes box. For shame.

* * *

For most of his childhood, Pavel Chekov kept to himself. His isolation was not intentional—in fact, he enjoyed the company of his four sisters and brother, his classmates and teachers. But as soon as Pavel learned to talk he knew he was different. As early as primary school he was already full of questions ("motor-tongue," his mother had affectionately dubbed him), and when nobody could provide the answers he sought them himself.

Pavel does not regret the consequential separation from his peers. Occasionally they were mean-spirited, but usually they just left him to his PADD and his star charts while they all partied, dated, and grew up. It is true that Chekov's rapid ascent through Starfleet accounted for an extreme deficit in his social awareness—after all, he was only fourteen when they finally let him enlist—but he finds that the other crew members find his lack of experience endearing.

In other words, they think he is cute.

Chekov feigns exasperation at this, but in his own way he is grateful for the acceptance. The crew does not question his abilities as he originally feared they would. They may perceive him as naïve or innocent, but they never doubt his knowledge or his dedication to the ship.

Still, they think he is simple. That his needs and interests are easily met, that he is uncomplicated. They see him as a blank corkboard, and every day they tack little pieces of themselves on him, defining who he will become.

Some of these pieces are bigger than others.


	2. Bones

I.

One night Chekov is restless with thoughts of home. He considers calling his mother, but it's late and he hates to worry her. She has enough on her mind with five other children at home. That aside, Chekov does not want someone to check the records on outgoing transmissions and perceive his neediness as weakness.

Instead he ventures out of his quarters to clear his head. He tiptoes carefully through the hallway past Uhura's and Sulu's doors, still clad in his blue Starfleet-issue pajamas. He heads to the kitchen, trusting that no one else will be awake at two in the morning, but he quickly discovers his blunder when he flicks on the light.

Bones is sitting at a table with his head in his hands. Chekov's heart jumps into his throat like a guilty child, and he takes an involuntary step back as Bones's eyes snap up, consider him, and furrow into a definitive scowl.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, ensign?" he mutters unkindly.

Chekov wills himself not to twitch. "Wery funny," he says, boldly making his way to the fridge under the doctor's relentless glare. Nervous, he grabs at the first thing he sees, which turns out to be rice pudding that looks questionable at best.

Bones scoffs when he sits down, looking at the pudding cup judgmentally. "Just how old are you, kid?"

The question is clearly rhetorical, but Chekov feels uncomfortable ignoring a question from a superior. "Sewenteen, sir," he answers, even though Bones knows this.

"I have a daughter your age."

Chekov raises his eyebrow, and puts down the spoonful of goop he had halfway to his mouth. "A daughter?" he echoes.

"Isn't that what I said?" Bones snaps.

The ensign flinches, and Bones gives a world-weary sigh. "Sorry," he says gruffly.

A long silence follows. Chekov takes a hesitant bite of the pudding, which tastes absolutely awful. As he swallows methodically he steals as sidelong glance at Bones. Something is clearly gnawing at him—his eyes are bloodshot and staring a hole into the flimsy table, his entire stance set in agitation. The room is so tense that Chekov doesn't dare move again, not even to touch the pudding.

The trepidation is noticeable in his voice when Chekov finally comments, "I deed not know jou had a daughter, sir."

"She hates me," says Bones, not missing a beat.

Chekov laughs and Bones's head snaps back up, gaping at him in a mixture of astonishment and anger. "She ees a teenager, no?" Chekov explains quickly, before the doctor can put him in his place. "Eet ees her job to hate jou."

"You're a teenager. Tell me, kid, you ever hang up on your parents screaming like a banshee?"

"No," Chekov answers honestly. He can only call home once a week, and he's lucky if he even catches his mother. Last month she called and had to leave a message, and Chekov was so anxious at missing her that he played the message over and over, just to hear the sound of her voice.

Chekov doesn't even know the sound of his father's voice.

"See?" says Bones, still trying to make his point.

"Eet ees deeferent, Doctor Bones," Chekov says reasonably.

"It isn't." Bones remains stubborn on the matter, picking off the paint from the table with his blunt fingernails.

"Eet ees," Chekov insists. He fiddles with his plastic spoon and doesn't elaborate. Surely Bones understands. "She ees angry zat jou aren't zere, but at least she ees angry. Eet means she cares." Chekov flushes and adds, "Sir."

Bones snorts. "You talk like an old man."

"I vas born one."

The doctor shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "So you're saying I should keep calling?"

"Aye, sir."

Bones remains in his seat, his eyebrow still furrowed in deliberation, but Chekov knows that he will call back in the morning. He cannot believe that Bones would be the kind of father to give up on a child—Bones seems unwilling to give up on anything or anybody.

Chekov wonders how Bones's daughter could find a reason to hate him. The ensign spent most of his life pushing boundaries, proving himself worthy, with the faint hope that maybe his father would notice, and call. He never did.

It didn't make him angry. It only made him sad.


	3. Uhura

II.

Lieutenant Uhura always asks Chekov to take lunch break with her. At first he is wary, convinced that she only asks out of some maternal pity for him, but she proves his theory wrong. She speaks Russian with him and they exchange stories of their lives before Starfleet, and for a half an hour every day Chekov is back in Moscow without the weight of the Enterprise on his bony shoulders.

One afternoon Uhura announces her lunch break early and does not request Chekov's company. The ensign is bewildered, but no one else notices anything unusual as she strides out of the bridge without him. Four minutes later he hesitantly asks the captain for permission to leave as well.

Kirk seems surprised that he's still there. "Yeah, go for it."

But Chekov does not find the lieutenant in the mess hall. He knows it's none of his business, but he can't help his curiosity, so he asks the computer to locate her.

She's in her quarters, adjacent to his own. He decides to take the lift down—if she's not going to accompany him at lunch, he might as well grab the PADD from his own room so he doesn't look so awkward sitting alone. He walks past Uhura's door, though, and something possesses him to knock.

"Who is it?" Her voice is muffled.

"Pavel," he replies.

"I'm busy."

"Oh-kee." He turns to leave.

"Wait."

Chekov waits, and Uhura opens the door. Her eyes are wet with tears and her immaculate eyeliner is now smudged so that she resembles one of Chekov's crazy grandmothers.

His concern is so immediate that she starts to tear up again. Before he can so much as ask what the matter is, she grabs his scrawny wrist and thrusts him inside with uncharacteristic abruptness. "I need you to look at something for me," she says shakily.

"Nyota—"

"Please?"

She thrusts a blood test in his hands. There's a faint reddish tinge around it, indicating that she administered it already. As soon as it's secure in his palm, Uhura tears herself away as if it repels her like two positive ends of a magnet.

He notices that she has pulled her hair out of its professional updo, and she shakes it out with trembling hands. "You don't even know what that's for." Her laugh is strained.

"I know." He recognizes the tiny code imprinted on the needle. When he was eleven his mother had used a similar one, before his half-brother Mascha was born.

It's a pregnancy test.

"Eet vill be ready by now," Chekov says gently.

"I can't look. You do it."

"Me?"

She doesn't reply, biting down hard on her lower lip. He cannot decipher what it is she fears from the test—that is, he can't tell if she wants it to be positive or not.

"Vould eet be bad?" he asks, not looking at the test.

She hesitates. "Yes," she concedes. Her eyes well up again and Chekov averts his gaze, sensing her embarrassment.

He takes a deep breath and flips the test over. "Negateef," he whispers.

Her crumpled eyebrows fly up to her forehead and she gasps a little in surprise. "Negative," she repeats, sinking onto the bed, her rigid shoulders drooping.

"Jes."

"Oh." Thick tears drip down her cheekbones. "Oh, well . . ." She catches herself, but another sharp intake of air escapes her.

She is not relieved. Chekov recognizes her grief and at first he is confused. She said she had not wanted the test to be positive, and yet she appears more distressed now than she had been before. Despite his four older sisters Chekov had difficulty deciphering women's emotions, but as him mother always tried to explain, "Sometimes women say one thing and mean something else entirely."

Chekov sees that the phrase applies here.

"I am zorry."

She may be laughing, but it sounds to hoarse and painful to qualify. "No, no, it's for the best."

"But . . . " Chekov scrunches his nose, trying to phrase his next words carefully. "But eet ees not vhat jou vanted."

This time a small sob escapes her. He crosses the space between them and sits beside her, putting the same arm around her shoulders he used to comfort Mascha when he was still three years old and afraid of the darkness. She leans into him and cries into his shoulder.

"It's selfish of me. I wanted it to be true."

"No—not selfeesh," Chekov insists. "Jou are a good person, jou deeserf to be happy."

She shudders, and the two of them remain frozen in grief for a long time, until Uhura's light sobs become less frequent and she pulls herself away from him, abashed.

Uhura considers him guiltily. "I'm sorry, Pavel, I shouldn't have—"

Chekov's resolve is firm. "No apologies. Jou are my friend."

She stands abruptly and rubs at her eyes. A deep breath is all it takes and she begins to gather her composure again. "You should go to the mess hall."

The ensign cannot imagine stomaching anything just now. He stands, but doesn't head for the door, afraid to leave her.

"They'll make a fuss if you don't turn up," she reminds him.

"And jou?"

A faint smile creases the corner of her lips, as if he has said something to amuse her. Then the somberness returns. "I just need to be alone a little while."

Again, Chekov doesn't move.

"I'll be alright," she emphasizes, firmer this time.

"Aye," he acknowledges, exhaling loudly. His sight is set on the door, but her voice stops him.

"Pavel?" she says anxiously.

"Jes."

"Please don't tell Spock about . . . this."

His shock is instantaneous, but he manages to hide it. At first he cannot wrap his brain around the idea. Commander Spock was responsible for the near pregnancy? It seems impossible, but Uhura's request is so blatant that she must assume that the relationship is common knowledge. Chekov feels foolish for not knowing and hopes she does not see the flush of embarrassment on his ears.

"Aye, lieutenant," he swears. He knows he does not have to cite the reliability of the Russians. She already knows.

Later, when Chekov is at his post on the bridge, Spock notes Uhura's absence out loud.

"Seeck in her quarters, sir," Chekov replies.

When Spock dismisses himself a half hour later, Chekov knows he is headed for Uhura, but he doesn't attempt to stop him. Whether or not she will admit it, Uhura needs Spock now. Sometimes women say one thing and mean something else entirely.


	4. Kirk

III.

Chekov understands that the crew members of the Enterprise don't publicly celebrate birthdays—not since the series of mishaps that led to projectile cake frosting and several concussions at Commander Spock's "surprise party," at least—but he still knows that there is a calendar posted on the wall of one of the engineering decks that lists all personnel's birthdays on it. Whenever Chekov passes it he makes a mental note of whose birthday is that week. People's faces always light up when they see someone has remembered.

But the day on the calendar marking the twenty-sixth anniversary of the U.S.S. Kelvin's destruction is blank.

The ensign recognizes the mistake easily. After all, the destruction of the Kelvin is legend. But he is too timid to add the captain's birthday to the page, seeing as the calendar belongs to a bunch of adults from a different department and they might not appreciate his interference. And Chekov is not certain whether or not the discrepancy was intentional. Perhaps the captain requested the omission. The day was one of mixed feelings, and Kirk may understandably be reluctant to celebrate on the day of his father's death.

That day on the bridge is just like any other. Chekov observes no shift in the captain's usual confident air and nobody even mentions the birthday, even though it is as obvious as a slap in the face. They all learned about the Kelvin in their Starfleet Gen Ed courses. They all know. But the ensign dismisses it and decides to leave well enough alone, keeping silent the whole day.

After a particularly long shift of demanding calculations, Uhura dismisses Chekov to "get some sleep." He is bleary-eyed, but in rebellion against her patronization Chekov heads to the Rec room instead and starts running vigorously on the treadmill in an attempt to exhaust himself.

Twenty-five minutes later he is joined by Captain Kirk. He must have inadvertently flinched because Kirk laughs at him. "At ease, Chekov." Then he arches an eyebrow. "Didn't Uhura send you to bed an hour ago?"

"Vith all due reespect, keptin, ze lieutenant can hardly—"

"Aw, relax, kid, I won't tattle on you," Kirk says easily, his blue eyes light with amusement.

Chekov smiles despite the belittlement. He doesn't mind it so much from Kirk, maybe because the captain makes it somewhat of an inside joke—he is much too young for his post as well. Or maybe Chekov doesn't mind because the captain has learned that he can get away with most anything with his goofy, conspiratorial smirk.

The captain picks up two of the seven pound weights and begins a series of exercises that Chekov recalls from one of their physical training sessions back at the academy. "You always attack treadmills like that?"

Chekov smiles. "I like running."

"Let me guess. The Russians invented it?"

Chekov pretends to be offended. "Ees zere any doubt een jour mind, keptin?"

"I guess this is how you won that marathon of yours. Treadmilling like a maniac."

"No," says Chekov, "I ran up ze long heells in San Franceesco ower and ower. Zey're good training."

"You miss being outside?"

Chekov shakes his head, a bit nervous at engaging in conversation with the captain when they're so alone. He is afraid he might say something stupid. Not to mention that he isn't sure he can maintain his current running speed and keep talking for much longer. "I like ze stars more," he manages.

"Amen to that."

They keep to themselves for a good ten minutes and Chekov falls into the rhythm of his feet pounding the treadmill and the clang of the captain's weights against each other. When Kirk speaks again he is mildly surprised.

"How old were you when you enlisted in Starfleet?" he asks without any prompting.

"Fourteen," Chekov answers.

"How does that even work?" Kirk frowns as if he is considering it.

"I legally emanceepated myself from my muzzer zo I could become my own guardian," says Chekov. He sees Kirk's reaction and assures him, "Eet vas necessary—zere vere no hard feelings. Ve don't really zink about eet, eet's really joost a formaleety."

Kirk nods, accepting the explanation, and Chekov cannot help but add, "May I ask vhat age you vere vhen jou enleested, keptin?"

"Twenty-two," replies the captain with a roguish grin. "Sort of a late-bloomer in comparison."

"Eh, but now jou are ze youngest keptin een heestory, correct?" Chekov grins back.

"I guess. There was some other guy who pulled it off at thirty."

"But jou are only twenty-seex!" Chekov beams.

Kirk opens his mouth to protest, but then his eyebrows squeeze together in contemplation. It's then that Chekov nearly slips off the treadmill, realizing his folly.

"I mean . . ." Chekov stammers.

Kirk sighs at his distress. "C'mon, kid, you know."

"Know vhat?" He sets the speed on the treadmill higher, as if he can outrun his own big mouth.

"What day it is."

For a moment the sound of Chekov's feet smacking the treadmill is the only sound reverberating off the walls. Finally the ensign admits between his gasps, "Jes, jes, I know vhat day eet ees." He turns the treadmill off—he's been at it long enough as it is, and now it just seems awkward to continue running when the conversation has taken such a dangerous turn.

At first Chekov thinks that Kirk may choose to ignore the topic. The ensign crosses the room, grabs a towel to mop himself off with, and returns to the equipment to gather up his own weights.

"It's not like I even remember it. I don't know why everybody makes this big deal out of 'giving me space' and what not." Kirk goes so far as to roll his eyes.

Chekov has no idea what to say.

"Oh, sure, I pay my respects every year. He was my _father_." Kirk pauses, putting one of the weights at his side and taking a quick breather. His expression is thoughtful and Chekov realizes that Kirk must have spent a long while thinking about this earlier today. "But I hate how everyone tiptoes around me like I'm a time bomb just waiting to go off. It's only a day. I'm not going to fall apart if someone reminds me."

"Jou took jour name off ze birthday calendar, sir," Chekov mumbles before he can stop himself.

Kirk laughs out loud. "Is that what this is about?"

The ensign's cheeks flare. "All ze ozzer birthday are leested, sir—"

"Yeah, I took it off."

"Because jou do not vant to celebrate?"

There's a flicker in the captain's eyes, and Chekov fears he has gone too far. But Kirk only picks up the weights again to continue lifting. "Would you?"

Chekov doesn't intend to answer, but the captain's eyes meet his as if he expects him to. "No," Chekov confesses. "I suppose I vould vant to be left alone."

Kirk shakes his head emphatically. "That's just it. I don't want to be left alone."

Not for the first time since his enlistment in Starfleet, Chekov feels absolutely helpless. He doesn't know what he can possibly say to amend the situation. Now that Kirk has said that he doesn't want to be alone, Chekov can hardly escape the Rec room and take refuge in his quarters.

What is he supposed to do?

"Jour fazzer vas a hero," he finally says lamely. It is all he can offer. "I used to read about heem before I enleested." What he doesn't say is that George Kirk played a profound influence in his decision to leave Russia for Starfleet, or that he would rather be the son of the dead hero than a nonexistent drunkard any day. He looks at Kirk meaningfully, willing him to understand that the sentiment is genuine.

"You did?" Kirk raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Jes." Chekov can't help but feel a bit embarrassed. "I used to talk about heem a lot. Vhen my muzzer heard zat hees son vas my keptin—" He cuts himself off, reddening. "Vell, she vas wery proud. And I zink jour fazzer vould be proud of jou eef he knew."

"I like to think so," Kirk says solemnly. He puts away his weights silently. "Chekov . . . thanks for telling me all that."

Chekov only nods. He can hear his heart pulsing in his head, and he wonders if he'll groan at this memory in the morning.

"It's midnight. You ought to get to sleep, or Uhura will have my head."

"Are jou eessuing an order, keptin?" Chekov asks warily.

The cocky smirk is plastered back on Kirk's face. "If that's how you're interpreting it, kid."

Chekov sighs melodramatically, putting away his weights. Kirk lingers at the entrance, as if he is unwilling to leave the boy in the Rec room alone. The doors slide open when Chekov approaches, and Kirk heads off in a separate direction, toward the lift that will lead to the bridge.

"Keptin?"

"Yeah, Chekov?"

Chekov gathers his nerves together and says it before he chickens out. "Happy birzday."

The smile on his face is softer now, lacking its usual bravado. "Thanks."


	5. Sulu

IV.

"Just leave me here," Sulu moans, clutching at his bloodied shirt front.

Chekov ignores the request, his fingers tapping furiously against his communicator. He trembles despite the oppressive blanket of heat and when his fingers slip on the key pad he unleashes a string of Russian curses that would absolutely shame his mother.

"Th-they'll find you if you stay—get _out_ of here, Chekov."

The humidity has long since plastered Chekov's unruly curls to his forehead. His breath comes too quickly—he feels the toxins running through his blood and he swallows thickly, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to get them out of this godforsaken place. Communications are down and the planet is hostile and Commander Spock is gone and Ensign Krovitch is dead and Sulu's close to it and they're stuck like sitting ducks and it's so hot that Chekov sweats as if the life is draining out of him, and all he can do is fuck around with his comm and pray that death isn't lurking just beyond the rock face—

"Ensign Chekov to Enterprise," he gasps. No response. "Enterprise, are you—"

A piece of rubble falls nearby. The two of them freeze for a full minute, but no sound follows.

"Please," Sulu begs, "I'm dead either way. If you get just a mile from here, the radio waves won't—"

"Shut up," Chekov hisses. He won't leave the helmsman behind, he'd never be able to live with himself.

"Chekov—"

"Ensign Chekov to Enterprise!" Chekov's voice breaks in an effort to block out Sulu's dying pleas. It's been ten minutes and Sulu has grown progressively worse—every time he coughs the blood thickens around his mouth, and Chekov is horrified knowing that the poison is in him, too, and it's only a matter of time before it starts to course through him as well.

Who can save them then?

"They're not going to answer." Sulu can barely make himself heard and Chekov tries his hardest to hide the sheer terror in his face, if only to ease his friend's pain.

"Zen ve need to moof," says Chekov in determination. He stumbles to his feet and the scorching air swirls around him like a dream. A primal sort of confidence swelled in his chest and he extended his arms to the collapsed Sulu. "Try and get up."

"I can't."

"_Try_."

"Chekov, it's suicide—"

"Ve vill be dead vezzer or not ve stay here, ju zaid as much jourself," Chekov snaps. As he haphazardly lifts Sulu up and manages to string him over his quaking shoulders, he bites his tongue, regretting the harshness.

"I can't even stand, are you insane, kid?"

Chekov grits himself. "Ve haff to . . ." He can't finish the sentence. The haze consumes him and it takes all his remaining concentration to keep putting his feet forward and hold onto the limp Sulu.

They're out in the open now, utterly exposed to the natives who were pursuing them, but Chekov doesn't see any threat in his now compromised vision. Their movements are sluggish and unproductive. Twenty feet later Sulu falls over and Chekov tumbles with him and they hit the dirt with a definitive thud.

"Sheet," Chekov curses, spitting out dust. Seized with panic, he rolls over to face Sulu, whose eyes are still somewhat animated. He wheezes in relief.

"I zought jou vere dead." Chekov almost laughs. He considers that he may be losing his mind.

Sulu moans. "If only."

Chekov scrambles up, kneeling above Sulu protectively. "Eet's okay, eet's okay, zey vill find us ewentually," he says, either to assure Sulu or to assure himself, he isn't certain anymore. "Look, I haff ze comm, I will reach zem, I promeese . . ."

"Chekov?"

The ensign barely hears him, his eyes set on the communicator once more. "Jes?"

"I'm going to die."

"Don't be reediculous. Ju vill be fine."

"No, no, I mean it . . . I need you to tell my sister—"

"Stop eet," Chekov nearly cries. He wants to cover his hands over his ears like a child.

"Chekov. Listen to me." Sulu coughs again and more blood escapes than ever before, and now it's thick and nearly black and Chekov wants to throw up.

"Are you listening?"

Chekov's heart is pounding in his ears. "Jes," he whispers.

"I need you . . . to tell my sister . . . that I—"

"I can hear them, but I can't for the life of me get a signal back out to them!"

Uhura's voice from the comm is so unexpected that a cry physically escapes Chekov, knocking the wind out of him. "Nyota?"

"Pavel? Pavel, do you read—"

"Jes! Jes!" he nearly screams into the communicator, broken and hoarse and dizzy. His entire torso pitches over the device and he cannot keep himself upright any longer.

"Are you alright?"

He turns to Sulu and sees that the man's eyes are still open, but vacant and unseeing. His heart nearly stops beating. He is sure that Sulu is dead, so certain that he does not answer Uhura.

"Captain, I think I've lost them again. Pavel? Can you hear me?"

It seems like time moves all too slowly as Chekov reaches forward and touches Sulu's shoulder, shaking him gently. No response.

"Chekov? It's Captain Kirk. If you can hear us, stay where you are. Commander Spock is trying to locate you."

The ensign's mouth opens wordlessly. All he can think about are Sulu's last words, pulsing in his head like his heartbeat, growing fainter—_tell my sister, tell my sister, tell my sister_ . . . Chekov is too exhausted to comprehend his grief, and his ribs wrack painfully from soundless sobs. The poison has killed Sulu, it's after him next . . .

Chekov knows he has failed.

"Ensign Chekov, if you can hear me—"

"Keptin, I can hear jou," he says softly.

"Are you alright?" he repeats.

His throat swells shut. "No. Sulu ees . . . not . . . not alright, sir." He can't say "dead." He can't do it.

"What do you mean?"

Chekov coughs and feels the metallic taste of blood, sticky in his mouth.

"_Chekov! _Do you copy?"

He tries to answer but cannot find the breath. There are footsteps in the distance—no, they're very near now, and Chekov braces himself for the end of everything, still wondering what it was Sulu meant to tell his sister, and now she'll never know—

As consciousness slips away he thinks to himself how he has never been more grateful to perceive the immaculate boots of one Commander Spock or the sudden flinch of Sulu's shoulder against his chest.


	6. Scotty

V.

"I'm in love with her, laddie."

Chekov is drunk, but nowhere near as much as Scotty. "Loff vith who?" he asks vaguely, helping himself to more replicated vodka. He would say that it tasted like home, but he left home long before his mother let him drink.

"The ship, of course."

The ensign spares him a laugh. Chekov isn't really in the talking sort of mood, but he finds Scotty entertaining, so he humors him. "I zink she must return jour affections, zeeing as she vorks like a dream," he says cheerfully.

Scotty does not laugh. Instead he takes another swig, further impeding on his mental capacities. "Eh, I'm not worthy of her."

"Vhat makes jou say zat?"

"She's . . . " Scotty waves his hand noncommittally, as if Chekov understands what he means through his stupor. He turns to Chekov, swiveling at a somewhat lopsided angle on his stool. "Tell me, you ever been in love?"

Chekov's too drunk to blush, but he takes a moment to respond. "No," he admits, "I suppose not."

With an unbecoming snort, Scotty says, "I s'pected as much."

"Hmm?" Unaffected by the slight, Chekov considers his near empty glass. It doesn't take much to mellow him and he knows when to stop, but it seems that Scotty enjoys retesting his capacity for alcohol every time he has a night off. Chekov knows better than to try and reason with him in this state. Fatigued and bored, he tries to leave the sad excuse for a bar, but Scotty clamps a hand onto his shoulder.

Chekov nearly flinches, unaccustomed to being touched on the Enterprise. "You're the only one who knows how it feels," Scotty says.

His voice is quiet enough that Chekov sits back on his stool in concern. "Vhat do jou mean?"

"The transporter." Scotty pauses, as if the answer is obvious.

"Jes?"

"I couldn't beam Ensign Krovitch in time. I nearly lost you and Sulu—"

"Eet vasn't jour fault—"

"I could hear you the whole time. Did you know that? We couldn't lock on your signal, we couldn't reply, but we heard you the whole damn time . . . I thought I heard both of you die." The glass is unsteady in his shaking hands, so he drains it and slaps it back down. His next words are almost inaudible. "Even when Spock found you there was still a minute that I couldn't beam you two up. You were delusional, you kept . . . you kept asking for your Ma . . ."

Chekov digs his elbows into the table and buries his head in his hands, ashamed. Scotty does not seem to notice, still trapped in the memory of it.

"I kept thinkin' about how awful it'd be callin' her to tell her what happened to you—"

"Jou deed everyzing jou could, Meester Scott, and jou deed eet better zan anyvone else vould haff." Chekov tries to make the sentiment coherent but mostly he feels sluggish from the vodka and disappointed in himself for his past weakness. "Eet ees not jour responsibility."

"Don't lie to me. You know it's not like that, that's not how it . . . feels."

Chekov shakes his head emphatically.

"I heard 'bout Amanda Grayson. Sulu says you were all in a funk about it."

"Sulu," Chekov echoes dumbly, unwilling to let the image of Spock's wide eyes pervade his murky thoughts again. So many nights Chekov wrestled sleeplessly against those stark, gut-wrenching moments: his thin fingers manipulating the controls, his heart pulsing like a tribal drum, his whole world a vacuum devoid of any other noise despite the chaos all around him—

"I felt badly, jes," says Chekov, offering the understatement of the year in hopes Scotty will drop it.

"So then you know." When Chekov doesn't answer, Scotty sighs, his shoulders rising and falling like the tide rolling in. "Even when you know you it's over . . ." he trails off.

Chekov doesn't mean to, but he says, "Jou vould do anyzing to go back and try again."

"Exactly," says Scotty. Then a drunken burp escapes the engineer, snapping Chekov out of his self-induced nightmare. He starts to heave himself off the stool a second time, suddenly desperate to escape, but Scotty is not finished emoting quite yet.

"I keep thinkin' that I'll move past it, but every time we lose someone it feels worse than the time before."

Chekov shudders. He could nod and empathize. He could put a comforting hand on Scotty's shoulder. He could even embrace him—he's drunk enough and young enough that no one would think twice on it.

But tonight he can't, because tonight he has nothing to say. He doesn't want to think about death. He doesn't want to think about the fleeting minute he'd been so certain that Sulu was gone that he wished he could join him. It is why Chekov wandered to the vodka—Scotty may drink and remember, but Chekov prefers to drink and forget.

Drained, Chekov lugs himself to his feet and finishes off the very last dregs of his glass. He glances at Scotty and sees that his fists are balled up in concentration, his eyebrows set in a hard line that held none of their usual wit.

"They don't teach you this sort of shit at the academy."

The ensign looks vaguely at the floor. "Ex astris, scientia," he whispers. He has known those words since he knew what Starfleet was.

Scotty recognizes the academy's motto. "From the stars, knowledge," he acknowledges gravely, and Chekov wonders if it's only a matter of time before his face is haunted by the same bitterness etched under the surface of Scotty's pale, inebriated skin.


	7. Chekov

VI.

Two weeks after their violent away mission, Sulu and Chekov are at the bridge surveying a rather disorganized starchart of a region they are approaching when a man Chekov doesn't recognize arrives from the turbolift. The ensign barely notices the intruder—not until the man says "Ensign Chekov?", and then his curly head snaps up in response.

"Jes?"

"You have a transmission. From Earth."

Chekov frowns. His mother is meticulously aware of his schedule and never calls when he is on duty. But she has not called for a while, long enough that Chekov has not even been able to recount his adventure with Sulu to her, and he has worried over the lack of communication. Perhaps she has just mistaken the hour.

"It can vait?" Chekov asks, puzzled.

The man shakes his burly head, and Chekov's heart leaps uncertainly. The feeling of foreboding in the air stifles him, but he clambers dumbly to his feet anyway. "I'll be right back, keptin," he says apologetically to Kirk, trying very hard to hide his embarrassment.

The captain seems concerned, but Chekov stalks out of the bridge before the man can say anything. By the time Chekov reaches his quarters the transmission is a recording, left for him on his PADD. He sits cross-legged on his bed and plays it, anticipating his mother's voice. Instead he hears his eldest sister's.

"маленький брат," Darya begins softly. Chekov bristles. She is usually boisterous and loud, like the rest of his sisters, but her voice is soft as she addresses him in Russian. "Pavel. Oh, Pavel . . . I hate to tell you this in a message, but you have to know."

Chekov's blood pulses beneath his skin and he leans forward. _Oh, God,_ he thinks, wishing the moment away, knowing that whatever Darya says is going to hurt worse than the mission with Sulu.

"Mascha stole a car . . . and crashed it."

His throat is too thick to make a sound, but his mouth hangs open in astonishment. Not his Mascha. Not his meek, bright-eyed half-brother . . . when Chekov left home Mascha was only four years old. He would have just turned nine.

He was "another little genius," as their mother said.

"He didn't feel anything. They say he died on impact." He hears Darya choke back a sob. "He's not bad, Pavel, I don't think he meant to do anything wrong—he was just—he was curious, and—"

Chekov registers that his tears are splotching the pad, draining into the corners of the screen. He pushes it away from him as if it has burned his flesh and a small cry of remorse escapes him.

"Oh, Pavel, I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you. Mother couldn't bear to tell you herself."

But Chekov wants to hear his mother's voice more than anything at that moment, and he curls into himself, shaking his head into his knees. Mascha cannot be dead. There must be a mistake, this must be a mistake—

His shame overwhelms him. Once again, he has failed to protect the ones he loves.

"She told me to send all our love. I know it . . . gets lonely up there for you."

Chekov has to bite back his hysterics. "Lonely" was certainly a word for it. In his whole life he has never felt as alone as he does right now.

Because he can hear the omitted words in Darya's explanation. The truth is that Mascha had probably found his old bicorder, the one he'd tinkered with before Starfleet had scooped him up, and used it to get into the car. The truth is that Mascha was probably just curious enough to try and emulate his older brother, to try and prove that he was just as capable as "Pavel in the stars".

The truth is . . . it is Chekov's fault Mascha is dead.

"I'll call again later," Darya vows. "Stay safe."

The message ends there. The teenager remains motionless on his sheets, clutching his legs to his torso, folding into himself as if he can flatten the swell of agony threatening to tear through his ribcage. Forgotten are his navigational duties, his promise to return to the bridge . . . Chekov forgets he is even on a ship, forgets that he is in his quarters—he just closes his eyes, spilling tears into his bony knees, and sinks into his disgrace.

* * *

Fifteen minutes turns into an hour and the bridge crew of the Enterprise are uneasy at Chekov's absence. They exchange glances, but nobody says anything at first; finally Kirk, practically twitching in his chair, blurts, "Where the hell is that Ensign?"

Spock looks at up him sharply, but sees that he has misinterpreted Kirk's reaction. He expects to see anger, but instead recognizes worry brewing in the captain's eyes. "I'll locate him, captain," Spock offers.

Kirk regards him warily. "It might be bad news." They both know Chekov would not abandon the bridge for anything less.

Spock understands, though, that Kirk is implying that he would not appropriately handle such a situation. The Vulcan stiffens just slightly. "That is a possibility," he acknowledges calmly.

"I'll go," both Uhura and Sulu say in unison, standing from their consoles. But Spock has already reached the turbolift.

"We're expecting a transmission from the Fallion colony within the next ten minutes, and without the navigator at the console it would be unwise for the pilot to leave his post," Spock reasons. It is only logical that he retrieve the ensign, as there is relatively little for him to do at the present. He communicates this with a meaningful glance at Uhura. She sits, albeit it hesitantly, and Sulu follows suit.

The doors to the turbolift close and Spock exits at the deck containing Chekov's quarters. He does not bother locating him with the computer, choosing instead to knock on his door, knowing full well that the ensign would not dare venture anywhere else on the Enterprise when he is on duty.

His knock is followed by a lengthy silence.

"Mr. Chekov?"

It is then that his keen ears register the sound of Chekov's light sob. He considers his next course of action carefully. Although it is clear that the ensign would rather be left alone, Spock remains standing at the door. It is only logical that he assess Chekov's condition and the circumstances involving it, as it will determine whether or not he is fit for duty.

"Permission to enter, ensign."

"No," says Chekov, his voice miserable and low. A few beats later he adds a frightened, "Commander."

"I would rather not request a security override to gain entry to your quarters."

Chekov understands the less-than-subtly phrased threat and his muffled voice carries through the closed door. "Geef me a meenute."

True to his request, exactly a minute passes, and the door to Chekov's room slides open. He half obscures himself in the dark room, but Spock sees that his eyes are swollen and wet and that, for the first time since he first met the boy, his shoulders are hunched over this thin body. It strikes Spock that Chekov appears anything but a crew member of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

The ensign stares determinedly at the ground. "Zere," he says in an attempt at defiance. "Now can jou please leaff?"

"Computer, lights on," Spock commands, and the room illuminates. He enters and sees that the ensign's quarters are as orderly and sterile as his own. He turns his attention back to Chekov, who is now shuffling his feet apprehensively by the open door. "May I ask what the matter is?"

"I am zorry for ze delay. I vill be on ze breedge een a few meenutes."

"Ensign Chekov, I asked you a question." He keeps his voice stern, but forces himself to soften it. Although the sensitivity of humans is sometimes lost on him, he understands that Chekov is more susceptible to offense, as he was careful to stay updated on the emotional profiles of all the crew members.

"Aye . . . zere ees no matter."

The lie is so blatant and absurd that Spock cannot help but raise an eyebrow. Chekov doesn't notice, still consumed with his task of averting his gaze. One of his tears hits the carpet with a soft thud.

"Approximately one hour ago you left your post for a transmission. As it seems uncharacteristic of you to disregard your duties, I would appreciate an explanation for this absence, Chekov."

The boy opens his mouth to speak and his skinny chest rattles, halting him.

"You may take as much time as you need to explain."

The words spill out of Chekov in a harsh breath. "My brother is dead."

Spock watches as the boy's face crumples, and all his pretense of composure falls apart. Although Spock himself does not outwardly react, the statement surprises him immensely—he had expected to hear unpleasant news, but he had not expected the ensign's crushing remorse. His chest heaves as if it pains him and his brown eyes are wide and unintelligible.

Almost mechanically, Spock reaches his arm out and places his hand on Chekov's shoulder, but he flinches away.

"Now jou know, now jou can go back to zee breedge," he manages.

Spock's feet are rooted in the carpet. "Chekov," he says, but he is unsure of what he means to convey. He sets his arm down and clears his throat. "Under the circumstances I will relieve you from your duties for the next few days, until—"

"No!" The desperation in his voice is unmistakable. He shakes his head emphatically. "No, I am fine, I joost need . . . a leetle vhile, a few meenutes."

Spock notices that the rate at which he is breathing is abnormal. "I can accompany you to sickbay," he offers, but this only seems to worsen the condition.

"I am _fine_, please, joost leaff me alone," Chekov begs.

It is then that Spock recognizes that Chekov is ashamed of Spock witnessing his emotional outburst. "There is no need to be embarrassed. This must be difficult for you," he says, trying his hardest to extend some sort of sympathy, wondering what it was Uhura would do in this situation.

"Of course eet ees hard, eet ees my fault he ees dead!" Chekov bursts. His hands gesture wildly in his attempt to communicate to Spock the impact of his words, but he is shaking too much to control himself. "Eef I hadn't left home—eef I hadn't left zat stupid bicorder under ze bed—"

"Ensign, you cannot blame yourself for something beyond your control," Spock says firmly.

For a brief moment Chekov's arms drop to his sides and he looks up at Spock in incredulity. "Vhy are jou trying to help me?" he asks. "Mascha ees dead, I let him die joost like I . . ." He shudders, and says so quietly that an ordinary human might not have heard it, "Joost like I let jour muzzer die."

"That was my fault," Spock returns, shocked that the ensign would possibly attempt to take the blame.

Chekov shakes his head again. "No, I vas ze one who lost her."

"If you will excuse me for speaking bluntly, I must say that your guilt is quite irrational. It was my responsibility to make sure she stayed still for transport—"

"I vas specially trained een emergency transport, I took enough classes zat eet should haff been easy, but she—she joost deesappeared . . . "

"You must understand that you are in no way culpable for my mother's death, ensign." Spock does not mean to sound harsh but he cannot help it. In response Chekov blinks at him, young and lost and hurt, but Spock continues. "There are more than a few who can be held responsible, but you are not among them."

For a few moments Chekov's dark eyes meet Spock's in apprehension, as though he is considering the validity of Spock's claim. He opens his mouth, presumably to protest.

And then, to Spock's immense relief, he sees Uhura standing in the still open doorway. In a beat she assesses the situation and swoops in to embrace the now weeping Chekov, murmuring kindly without so much as asking what the matter is. Spock observes in surprised silence as the ensign willingly cries into her shoulder.

He sees that his approach was entirely the wrong one, and as he ducks out of the room he can only hope that Uhura will convey the sympathy Spock is incapable of expressing himself.

* * *

That night Uhura lets Chekov cry into her shoulder until he falls asleep. The next week Kirk lets him keep his space on the schedule, but the one time Chekov fails to show up he does not say a word against him, only joins him in the gym where he is engaged in running a grueling twenty-six miles. Scotty brings replicated vodka to his quarters and together they toast to the life of a bright eight-year-old boy. Sulu spots for any mistakes Chekov makes at the conn, and catches only one, but never tells him.

Bones calls his mother and forces him to talk to her, and they spend the whole night talking and crying and remembering, lightyears away from each other.

The crew members of the Enterprise take care of Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andrieivich because he is their blank corkboard, and every day they tack little pieces of themselves on him, defining who he will become.

Some pieces are bigger than others, but Chekov's friends are more than willing to share the burden.

* * *

Well, if you made it this far, thanks for reading! That's the end :)


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